So, the song in French is possibly a little late - the site that posted it dated the recording between 1898 and 1900. But the opera it's from was 1888, so, plausible. And the words were just far, far too lovely to not use it!
I do not know French. Like at all. But GoogleTranslate gave me this, which provides a clear enough sense of the thing:
Jocelyn's Lullaby
Hidden in the asylum where God has led us
United by misfortune during the long nights
We rely both asleep in their sails
Where to pray against the trembling stars.
Oh! does not wakes
For a beautiful angel in your dream
Unrolling his long golden thread
Child, allowing it ends.
Sleep, sleep, the day just to him.
Blessed Virgin Mary, watch over him.
I swear to you all, I did NOT even make the connection between the title and my character, not until I wrote the song into the story and decided to mention the name of the song. Suddenly I realized I HAVE A CHARACTER NAMED JOCELYN AND OMFGWTFH SHE GAVE THE RECORDING TO MACKIE. It almost (almost) made me not want to use it anymore, but by then a) it was too late, b) I was too freaking attached to the song. Follow the link, and you can listen to it too. :) Quite a bit of static, of course - the recording is over a hundred years old, and on a thing made out of freaking wax, but.. honestly, that just makes it all the more amazing to me.
I did some writing this morning, a bit more in the afternoon, and then finished up just now. And I am in such a state of sheer bliss - I crossed the halfway point without even noticing it! And, more importantly... I felt like I really fell into the world of the story tonight. I was so caught up in Mephisto and David... and it was partly the music I had cranked on my headphones (Mackie playlist, natch), and partly the absinthe I was sipping (yay!), but...
Those moments, those are the reasons I've kept on doing this year after year. It's those moments, that artists live for, when another world just blossoms almost unbidden under your fingertips...
(I hadn't even thought of the implications when I picked out David's song: Link to sheet music, Googled for the missing verse. I just saw that it was pretty and a bit fantastic, I didn't even realize at first it was to be sung by a woman originally. And then he sang, and... and then everything got really, really beautiful. <333)
Monday, November 15, 2010
12 - Mephisto, continued
The drive seems to take an age. David chatters lightly about meaningless things, and I listen and do not listen as the mood suits. He does not seem to mind either way – he is such an easygoing boy, so happy to be simply allowed in my presence. And I... I find it so strange, that such a lighthearted soul can exist in such a world as this. Whether he is incapable of seeing things that would bring him sorrow, or simply disregards them, I do not know. But it seems nothing in this cold world will dissipate the sunlit atmosphere around him.
...No, he is not incapable of seeing sorrows, for he sings of them, sings of sorrow and the rich intensity with which it can be felt. He sings of sorrow and of those rare moments when it seems sorrow can never exist again, for nothing can touch pure rapture and bright joy. There is such depth in all that he sings... which is well, for he is yet quite lacking in repertoire. He knows the songs which are studied in conservatories, and through repetition and scrutiny have been sapped of all their passion. He knows the common songs of the day, and the popular ones of plays and the stage. But there are so many others, so many I should like to teach him, if I could only find the strength to do so. Though I should long to hear them, there are such memories attached... and then strange lapses of memories, and fragments of the songs lost among all of these years. I should have someone search out the music in written form, that I might have him learn the songs in that fashion. Though I could teach him by rote, I... I dare not risk finding what is attached within me to those songs. If he should sing them, they would find new life, and I could hear them again, but if I sang them, I should only sing of memories.
The carriage has stopped. The door is held open by the invisible driver, a chilly wind whipping into the carriage, seeking to expel us with the discomfort that it brings. David is silent, looking at me expectantly.
“Do excuse me, I was lost in remembrance of something. Let us go indoors.”
We are soon seated in a small, warm room. A fire is blazing in the grate, throwing black shadows on the carmine walls. The furniture is all of dark wood, upholstered in deep velvets and other warm fabrics. There are candles lit in sconces along the wall, between dim paintings of roses and peonies, poppies and amaranth. The single window is hidden behind heavy drapes, and the thick oriental rugs on the floor silence all footfalls. The fire crackles soothingly, the only voice to be heard. Perhaps I shall have a small meal brought in to us shortly, I feel I could use some refreshment.
Sighing, I let my body sink into a particularly plush chair, set near the fire. David perches on a small stool nearby, fidgeting and looking around curiously. I chuckle softly, a little tiredly, knowing I must find some amusement for him, since I have little attention for conversation. “There is a phonograph in the corner – do you know how to use it?”
The boy's soft blue eyes turn to mine, completely puzzled. “Whatever is it?”
I smile, rising slowly, then crossing the room to a finely-carved wooden cabinet. I lift the cover, and reveal to David's eager eyes a small machine. Resting on a wooden base painted with red flourishes, the mechanisms are half-hidden amidst ornate swirls of iron, painted gold. The boy watches curiously, and I open a drawer below to withdraw a pale white cylinder, my fingers touching only the two ends, so as not to disturb the delicate wax-like material. I adjust the cylinder within the metal frame, move the needle down just so, and attach the lightly engraved golden cone. A few short turns of the crank, a final adjustment, and I begin to step back to watch the response--- but, no, there, the announcement of the song's title is far too fast, I have forgotten to adjust the speed. I do so quickly, and we do not miss any of the song.
David stands aghast, his eyes widening as he hears the haunting notes of some distant piano echoing from the cone. “There cannot be a piano inside the casing, how---” He turns white, as a woman's voice is heard:
“Cachés dans cet asile où Dieu nous a conduits...”
“No---” he gasps, taking a step backward. But as the song continues, he moves slowly closer, fascinated by the strangeness of the lovely disembodied voice.
“Unis par le malheur durant les longues nuits
Nous reposons tous deux endormis sous leurs voiles
Où prions au regard des tremblantes étoiles...”
“No ghost. A recording, as words on a page,” I murmur softly, putting a hand to his waist in reassurance. He is transfixed, both by the eerie quality of the voice without body, and the skill of the singer.
“Oh! Ne t'éveille pas encore
Pour qu'un bel ange de ton rêve...”
He takes a hesitant step forward, leaning closer to observe the quickly spinning cylinder, but he cannot entirely focus on the mechanics, while the voice continues.
“En déroulant son long fil d'or
Enfant, permette qu'il s'achève.
Dors, dors, le jour à peine a lui.
Viere Sainte, veillex sur lei.”
There is a soft shushing from the machine, and I move to lift the stylus, letting it fall still. I turn to David, whose face is still pale, though his eyes shine with fascination. “What magic have you wrought, to conjure this woman's voice away from her?”
I smile tenderly at his innocence. “It is no magic, my dear... do you not recall that American, I forget the name, who demonstrated a voice recording machine here some years ago? Perhaps you were too young. This is a newer version of that invention. It is able to feel the vibrations of sound in the air, which causes a needle to press into the wax. The lines, when re-traced, cause the air to be vibrated in the same manner, which reproduces the original sound.” I am not entirely certain of the details of this delightful novelty, but it is as good an explanation as any, for David knows nothing of the sciences. I rather like him that way – his sense of wonder is always refreshing. “Our Jocelyn sent this to me, the singer is an acquaintance of hers in Paris.” I smile wryly as I replace the cylinder in its pasteboard container – the title, written in a florid hand, is “Berceuse de Jocelyn,” from some recent opera. An obvious connection, but the song is enchanting enough to forgive its title. Où prions au regard des tremblantes étoiles...
“It seems hardly possible...”
I sort through other tubes in the cabinet, seeking out one that is unmarked by a song's title. I open the pasteboard lid, and gently lift out the cylinder inside. It is a rich brown in color, and I return it to the case, trying several containers before I find one with a white cylinder. Though these are far more delicate, they produce a much lovelier quality of sound, catching more details of the performance. I carefully set it in the machine, changing the player head as I do so. Without turning, I ask casually, “Would you like to record something?”
He cannot help but gasp. “I--- is that possible? Mephisto, you tease me, what is this magic? Was there a woman in the next room, who sang through some hole I do not see? Certainly I---”
I laugh, and guide him closer to the machine. “Of course you can. Please. You only need sing – position yourself about here, and sing into the horn thus. Will that be simple enough? That is all you need do.”
“What... what shall I sing?” The boy's hand trembles. What a little darling.
“Anything you like! There is no demand for greatness, I have many more of these that are blank. If you feel poorly about how you sing, it can be erased. Do not worry yourself, simply sing something to me. Have you thought of something? Good.” I turn the handle several more times, and adjust the machine. “Now, sing,” I whisper into his ear, squeezing his shoulders lightly, then stepping back, that my breath will not be caught in the recording.
He clears his throat softly, then begins, singing the words to a song I heard played at Meres' party not long ago:
“He was a Prince with golden hair,
In a palace beside the sea,
And I but a little white Mermaiden,
And how should he care for me?”
A silly, simple song – and certainly it was not written for the male voice! But somehow, it seems all the more ethereal and sweet, to hear it sung in lower tones. The notes bend in unexpected places, and he curls them luxuriously around the words.
“Last summer I came, in the calm blue nights,
To roam through the cool sea-caves:
Last summer he came, when the stars were shining,
To walk by the lone sea-waves.”
His eyes have closed, but he remains where I positioned him – and I certainly hope the machine is capable of capturing at least something of this impromptu serenade. For though not every note is perfect, there is such charm in the tone of his voice, and the intimacy of the small room, the two of us so close, his lips so near the recorder...
“There is no light in the gray sea-groves
Like the light on his golden hair:
There be no sweetnesses known to the sea-folk
So sweet as his kisses were.
“I love him, love him, ah, so well!
That my love hath grown pain in me,
And to-morrow he weds the Princess, yonder
In that palace beside the sea.”
He remains motionless for a heartbeat, then steps back, looking shyly over at me, as if to seek assurance that he has performed adequately. I nod, smiling with more warmth than I have felt in some time, and lift the stylus, stilling the machine. “There, now... I have locked away your voice forever, as the sea-witch did to another little mermaiden.”
David laughs at the absurdity of this idea, but I can see he is still disconcerted by the whole affair.
“Would you like to hear it?”
He hesitates, uncertain. “If... if you would like to play it,” is the most decisive thing he can find to say. I suspect he is afraid of some sorcery, and also afraid to hear the failings of his own voice. For he has never heard it himself – one never sounds the same to others as one sounds to oneself – and what if he should not be pleased with it?
But I will play it for him, for I wish him to get some sense, some glimpse, of the beauty I see in him... he has given me so much, in the end, that I should like to give him something, some small thing at least...
I adjust the machine, and there is a moment of soft hiss, and then...
“He was a Prince with golden hair,
In a palace beside the sea,
And I but a little white Mermaiden...”
David gasps softly, a hand flying to his open mouth, his eyes wide. The quality of the recording is far from perfect, any copy could not help but lose some nuance of the boy's song... but it is enough. The purity in his tone, the delicacy with which he handles every note, arranging them as crystals in sunlight, each one adjusted just so, that the light it refracts will play off the others around it, every one made the brighter by those around it. Oh, there is such beauty in his song – and though he cannot hear all of it, he hears enough, and he hears... he hears, for the first time, the longing that is in his voice, as he sings of a prince whose love he does not deserve. Awareness creeps into his eyes, and he is terrified by the realization that his emotion could be so obvious to all but himself. He will not look at me. I take his chin in my fingertips, and lightly trace his lower lip, forcing his eyes into mine. His eyes are so wide, so blue, as the clearest skies of a thousand years ago, before smoke and dust rose to discolor them, his eyes so open and innocent and filled with wonder and kindness...
His eyes, so like those I once saw reflected in pools of still water, in those long-distant days when the skies were still new...
“Your song was for me...” I breathe the words half in question, half in statement. He nods, biting his lip, lashes fluttering as his heart begins to race. “Sing, sweet David... sing for me.”
He takes a shaky breath, almost whispering as he sings along with the recording, an eerie duet with himself.
“Last summer he came, when the stars were shining,
To walk by the lone sea-waves...”
His voice grows more confident, and he adds variation to the song, harmonizing with the ghostly echo of himself, making strange yearning chords of unearthly longing...
“There is no light in the gray sea-groves
Like the light on his golden hair:
There be no sweetnesses known to the sea-folk
So sweet as his kisses were...”
I wrap an arm close around his waist, pulling his body against mine. I can feel his chest rising with each intake of breath, I can feel the heat of the song as it pours from his red, red lips...
“I love him, love him, ah, so well!
That my love hath grown pain in me,
And to-morrow he weds the Princess, yonder
In that palace beside the sea.”
The words can barely leave his throat, so thick with emotion are they. I sway our bodies gently, in motion to his song, my hand caressing the delicate lines of his face, his eyes hopelessly lost in mine. He is so fragile, for all the power that flies from his throat... he pours so much into the song, that it leaves him so little to stand on, in the flood of the world.
“No princess could steal my heart,” I murmur softly to him, my breath mixing with his on our lips. His small fists clench at my sides, clinging desperately to my jacket, and I can feel his heart fluttering against my chest.
“I would not steal it from you,” he whispers, his voice thick with the sincere passion of his heart. “I would... would only hold it if it were offered, and hold it with such care...”
We do not hear the last echoes from the cold machine, for we are lost in the eternal, deafening silence of a kiss.
...No, he is not incapable of seeing sorrows, for he sings of them, sings of sorrow and the rich intensity with which it can be felt. He sings of sorrow and of those rare moments when it seems sorrow can never exist again, for nothing can touch pure rapture and bright joy. There is such depth in all that he sings... which is well, for he is yet quite lacking in repertoire. He knows the songs which are studied in conservatories, and through repetition and scrutiny have been sapped of all their passion. He knows the common songs of the day, and the popular ones of plays and the stage. But there are so many others, so many I should like to teach him, if I could only find the strength to do so. Though I should long to hear them, there are such memories attached... and then strange lapses of memories, and fragments of the songs lost among all of these years. I should have someone search out the music in written form, that I might have him learn the songs in that fashion. Though I could teach him by rote, I... I dare not risk finding what is attached within me to those songs. If he should sing them, they would find new life, and I could hear them again, but if I sang them, I should only sing of memories.
The carriage has stopped. The door is held open by the invisible driver, a chilly wind whipping into the carriage, seeking to expel us with the discomfort that it brings. David is silent, looking at me expectantly.
“Do excuse me, I was lost in remembrance of something. Let us go indoors.”
We are soon seated in a small, warm room. A fire is blazing in the grate, throwing black shadows on the carmine walls. The furniture is all of dark wood, upholstered in deep velvets and other warm fabrics. There are candles lit in sconces along the wall, between dim paintings of roses and peonies, poppies and amaranth. The single window is hidden behind heavy drapes, and the thick oriental rugs on the floor silence all footfalls. The fire crackles soothingly, the only voice to be heard. Perhaps I shall have a small meal brought in to us shortly, I feel I could use some refreshment.
Sighing, I let my body sink into a particularly plush chair, set near the fire. David perches on a small stool nearby, fidgeting and looking around curiously. I chuckle softly, a little tiredly, knowing I must find some amusement for him, since I have little attention for conversation. “There is a phonograph in the corner – do you know how to use it?”
The boy's soft blue eyes turn to mine, completely puzzled. “Whatever is it?”
I smile, rising slowly, then crossing the room to a finely-carved wooden cabinet. I lift the cover, and reveal to David's eager eyes a small machine. Resting on a wooden base painted with red flourishes, the mechanisms are half-hidden amidst ornate swirls of iron, painted gold. The boy watches curiously, and I open a drawer below to withdraw a pale white cylinder, my fingers touching only the two ends, so as not to disturb the delicate wax-like material. I adjust the cylinder within the metal frame, move the needle down just so, and attach the lightly engraved golden cone. A few short turns of the crank, a final adjustment, and I begin to step back to watch the response--- but, no, there, the announcement of the song's title is far too fast, I have forgotten to adjust the speed. I do so quickly, and we do not miss any of the song.
David stands aghast, his eyes widening as he hears the haunting notes of some distant piano echoing from the cone. “There cannot be a piano inside the casing, how---” He turns white, as a woman's voice is heard:
“Cachés dans cet asile où Dieu nous a conduits...”
“No---” he gasps, taking a step backward. But as the song continues, he moves slowly closer, fascinated by the strangeness of the lovely disembodied voice.
“Unis par le malheur durant les longues nuits
Nous reposons tous deux endormis sous leurs voiles
Où prions au regard des tremblantes étoiles...”
“No ghost. A recording, as words on a page,” I murmur softly, putting a hand to his waist in reassurance. He is transfixed, both by the eerie quality of the voice without body, and the skill of the singer.
“Oh! Ne t'éveille pas encore
Pour qu'un bel ange de ton rêve...”
He takes a hesitant step forward, leaning closer to observe the quickly spinning cylinder, but he cannot entirely focus on the mechanics, while the voice continues.
“En déroulant son long fil d'or
Enfant, permette qu'il s'achève.
Dors, dors, le jour à peine a lui.
Viere Sainte, veillex sur lei.”
There is a soft shushing from the machine, and I move to lift the stylus, letting it fall still. I turn to David, whose face is still pale, though his eyes shine with fascination. “What magic have you wrought, to conjure this woman's voice away from her?”
I smile tenderly at his innocence. “It is no magic, my dear... do you not recall that American, I forget the name, who demonstrated a voice recording machine here some years ago? Perhaps you were too young. This is a newer version of that invention. It is able to feel the vibrations of sound in the air, which causes a needle to press into the wax. The lines, when re-traced, cause the air to be vibrated in the same manner, which reproduces the original sound.” I am not entirely certain of the details of this delightful novelty, but it is as good an explanation as any, for David knows nothing of the sciences. I rather like him that way – his sense of wonder is always refreshing. “Our Jocelyn sent this to me, the singer is an acquaintance of hers in Paris.” I smile wryly as I replace the cylinder in its pasteboard container – the title, written in a florid hand, is “Berceuse de Jocelyn,” from some recent opera. An obvious connection, but the song is enchanting enough to forgive its title. Où prions au regard des tremblantes étoiles...
“It seems hardly possible...”
I sort through other tubes in the cabinet, seeking out one that is unmarked by a song's title. I open the pasteboard lid, and gently lift out the cylinder inside. It is a rich brown in color, and I return it to the case, trying several containers before I find one with a white cylinder. Though these are far more delicate, they produce a much lovelier quality of sound, catching more details of the performance. I carefully set it in the machine, changing the player head as I do so. Without turning, I ask casually, “Would you like to record something?”
He cannot help but gasp. “I--- is that possible? Mephisto, you tease me, what is this magic? Was there a woman in the next room, who sang through some hole I do not see? Certainly I---”
I laugh, and guide him closer to the machine. “Of course you can. Please. You only need sing – position yourself about here, and sing into the horn thus. Will that be simple enough? That is all you need do.”
“What... what shall I sing?” The boy's hand trembles. What a little darling.
“Anything you like! There is no demand for greatness, I have many more of these that are blank. If you feel poorly about how you sing, it can be erased. Do not worry yourself, simply sing something to me. Have you thought of something? Good.” I turn the handle several more times, and adjust the machine. “Now, sing,” I whisper into his ear, squeezing his shoulders lightly, then stepping back, that my breath will not be caught in the recording.
He clears his throat softly, then begins, singing the words to a song I heard played at Meres' party not long ago:
“He was a Prince with golden hair,
In a palace beside the sea,
And I but a little white Mermaiden,
And how should he care for me?”
A silly, simple song – and certainly it was not written for the male voice! But somehow, it seems all the more ethereal and sweet, to hear it sung in lower tones. The notes bend in unexpected places, and he curls them luxuriously around the words.
“Last summer I came, in the calm blue nights,
To roam through the cool sea-caves:
Last summer he came, when the stars were shining,
To walk by the lone sea-waves.”
His eyes have closed, but he remains where I positioned him – and I certainly hope the machine is capable of capturing at least something of this impromptu serenade. For though not every note is perfect, there is such charm in the tone of his voice, and the intimacy of the small room, the two of us so close, his lips so near the recorder...
“There is no light in the gray sea-groves
Like the light on his golden hair:
There be no sweetnesses known to the sea-folk
So sweet as his kisses were.
“I love him, love him, ah, so well!
That my love hath grown pain in me,
And to-morrow he weds the Princess, yonder
In that palace beside the sea.”
He remains motionless for a heartbeat, then steps back, looking shyly over at me, as if to seek assurance that he has performed adequately. I nod, smiling with more warmth than I have felt in some time, and lift the stylus, stilling the machine. “There, now... I have locked away your voice forever, as the sea-witch did to another little mermaiden.”
David laughs at the absurdity of this idea, but I can see he is still disconcerted by the whole affair.
“Would you like to hear it?”
He hesitates, uncertain. “If... if you would like to play it,” is the most decisive thing he can find to say. I suspect he is afraid of some sorcery, and also afraid to hear the failings of his own voice. For he has never heard it himself – one never sounds the same to others as one sounds to oneself – and what if he should not be pleased with it?
But I will play it for him, for I wish him to get some sense, some glimpse, of the beauty I see in him... he has given me so much, in the end, that I should like to give him something, some small thing at least...
I adjust the machine, and there is a moment of soft hiss, and then...
“He was a Prince with golden hair,
In a palace beside the sea,
And I but a little white Mermaiden...”
David gasps softly, a hand flying to his open mouth, his eyes wide. The quality of the recording is far from perfect, any copy could not help but lose some nuance of the boy's song... but it is enough. The purity in his tone, the delicacy with which he handles every note, arranging them as crystals in sunlight, each one adjusted just so, that the light it refracts will play off the others around it, every one made the brighter by those around it. Oh, there is such beauty in his song – and though he cannot hear all of it, he hears enough, and he hears... he hears, for the first time, the longing that is in his voice, as he sings of a prince whose love he does not deserve. Awareness creeps into his eyes, and he is terrified by the realization that his emotion could be so obvious to all but himself. He will not look at me. I take his chin in my fingertips, and lightly trace his lower lip, forcing his eyes into mine. His eyes are so wide, so blue, as the clearest skies of a thousand years ago, before smoke and dust rose to discolor them, his eyes so open and innocent and filled with wonder and kindness...
His eyes, so like those I once saw reflected in pools of still water, in those long-distant days when the skies were still new...
“Your song was for me...” I breathe the words half in question, half in statement. He nods, biting his lip, lashes fluttering as his heart begins to race. “Sing, sweet David... sing for me.”
He takes a shaky breath, almost whispering as he sings along with the recording, an eerie duet with himself.
“Last summer he came, when the stars were shining,
To walk by the lone sea-waves...”
His voice grows more confident, and he adds variation to the song, harmonizing with the ghostly echo of himself, making strange yearning chords of unearthly longing...
“There is no light in the gray sea-groves
Like the light on his golden hair:
There be no sweetnesses known to the sea-folk
So sweet as his kisses were...”
I wrap an arm close around his waist, pulling his body against mine. I can feel his chest rising with each intake of breath, I can feel the heat of the song as it pours from his red, red lips...
“I love him, love him, ah, so well!
That my love hath grown pain in me,
And to-morrow he weds the Princess, yonder
In that palace beside the sea.”
The words can barely leave his throat, so thick with emotion are they. I sway our bodies gently, in motion to his song, my hand caressing the delicate lines of his face, his eyes hopelessly lost in mine. He is so fragile, for all the power that flies from his throat... he pours so much into the song, that it leaves him so little to stand on, in the flood of the world.
“No princess could steal my heart,” I murmur softly to him, my breath mixing with his on our lips. His small fists clench at my sides, clinging desperately to my jacket, and I can feel his heart fluttering against my chest.
“I would not steal it from you,” he whispers, his voice thick with the sincere passion of his heart. “I would... would only hold it if it were offered, and hold it with such care...”
We do not hear the last echoes from the cold machine, for we are lost in the eternal, deafening silence of a kiss.
History of Recorded Music
Aaaand I just spent nearly two hours pouring over phonograph history. I had a hunch records weren't around in the late 1800s (not even the giant breakable shellac ones). I remembered seeing cylinders put into a phonograph-like thing in "An American Tale". That was all.
Thanks to Wikipedia, I now have the entire early history of sound recording lodged in my brain:
The phonautograph - earliest sound recorder, but was NOT intended for playback. Just took down the waveforms, essentially. Two years ago someone finally figured out how to reproduce the sound, and thanks to FirstSounds.org, I got to listen to a scientist singing in 1860s - a scrap of music that went completely unheard, and unlistenable, for over 150 years. Really, really haunting.
But obviously, that is not what my characters would have had on hand. Cylinders (which could both record and play back) showed up around the 1870s, so that's plausible. I spent awhile over on Tinfoil.com, which has A FREAKING TON of recordings from old cylinders - there are select recordings from the 1890s onward posted, and you can purchase cds (and in my case, listen to samples) of things from cylinders going back to the 1880s. Peeeerfect.
Only, Edison used tinfoil-covered cylinders first. A couple years later, wax ones came along, which had much better sound and were easier to handle. So, I need to decide which I'm going with - this feels like a HUGE decision to make, as it basically decides whether my story takes place after 1886 (wax cylinders patented).
...this, of course, is not something that aaanyone would nitpick me on. I don't think anachronisms within a couple of years count for much, when the setting is over a hundred years ago.
Still, I'm oddly fascinated by this stuff. I went through about half of Rene Rondeau's amazing site filled with pictures and descriptions of the early machines. (A talking doll from 1890?! With a tiny little wax cylinder player in her chest! I am all kinds of delightfully terrified by this thing.) While most of the recordings on Tinfoil.com are very static (wax cylinders wore down after about a dozen plays, plus mold and age do not play nicely with them), there's a video embedded on Rene Rondeau's site, that shows a recent demonstration of a tinfoil cylinder. Sound quality? Is *really*, really impressive, especially for music. So impressive, that I think Mackie is going to get one. Well, maybe a wax one - I suspect Mackie is going to be the very first audiophile. XD lmfao.
...and, there, wiki's article on phonograph cylinders: commercial ones would play about 2 minutes of music. That's what I was looking for. (Descriptions of gorgeous tinfoil machines like this one - which I am insanely in love with - mention things like "could only record 50-60 words". Not quite enough to work with.) Tough to find pictures of machines from before 1900, and apparently the material the earliest wax cylinders were made of...uh, didn't survive well. Many fogged during the summer due to high heat, and inconsistent ingredient formulations were an issue. (The tinfoil ones can't be played back anymore at all. That's so sad.)
The cardboard tubes the cylinders were packaged in? Just gave company name, artist info was hand-written on them. No marking on the cylinders themselves at all - though an announcer often gave that info at the start of the recording. To hold one properly, you should stick your fingers inside the cylinder at either end, not touching the wax part. (This, on further thought, makes an awful lot of sense. You could buy attachments to shave flat - and thus erase - recorded cylinders.) Such odd little details, things you'd never think of questioning...
Also - I suspect that, come editing time (and/or desperate-for-wordcount-time), I am going to make some serious, serious use of this stunning collection of old sheet music. What a truly amazing resource, I cannot WAIT to dive into it!
...but I should probably remedy my word count first. Worked early yesterday, so only had time to put in about 700 words in the morning, and when I got home, there was a football game to watch with Tom, and then we decided to have a nice lil evening. (Didn't post on here yesterday - backdated it when posted today.) Poor lil word count.
One last link: piano recording, no date, though I'd guess late 1880s-early 1890s, since it's a white cylinder of a metal soap, which was tried shortly after wax ones came on the market.
Thanks to Wikipedia, I now have the entire early history of sound recording lodged in my brain:
The phonautograph - earliest sound recorder, but was NOT intended for playback. Just took down the waveforms, essentially. Two years ago someone finally figured out how to reproduce the sound, and thanks to FirstSounds.org, I got to listen to a scientist singing in 1860s - a scrap of music that went completely unheard, and unlistenable, for over 150 years. Really, really haunting.
But obviously, that is not what my characters would have had on hand. Cylinders (which could both record and play back) showed up around the 1870s, so that's plausible. I spent awhile over on Tinfoil.com, which has A FREAKING TON of recordings from old cylinders - there are select recordings from the 1890s onward posted, and you can purchase cds (and in my case, listen to samples) of things from cylinders going back to the 1880s. Peeeerfect.
Only, Edison used tinfoil-covered cylinders first. A couple years later, wax ones came along, which had much better sound and were easier to handle. So, I need to decide which I'm going with - this feels like a HUGE decision to make, as it basically decides whether my story takes place after 1886 (wax cylinders patented).
...this, of course, is not something that aaanyone would nitpick me on. I don't think anachronisms within a couple of years count for much, when the setting is over a hundred years ago.
Still, I'm oddly fascinated by this stuff. I went through about half of Rene Rondeau's amazing site filled with pictures and descriptions of the early machines. (A talking doll from 1890?! With a tiny little wax cylinder player in her chest! I am all kinds of delightfully terrified by this thing.) While most of the recordings on Tinfoil.com are very static (wax cylinders wore down after about a dozen plays, plus mold and age do not play nicely with them), there's a video embedded on Rene Rondeau's site, that shows a recent demonstration of a tinfoil cylinder. Sound quality? Is *really*, really impressive, especially for music. So impressive, that I think Mackie is going to get one. Well, maybe a wax one - I suspect Mackie is going to be the very first audiophile. XD lmfao.
...and, there, wiki's article on phonograph cylinders: commercial ones would play about 2 minutes of music. That's what I was looking for. (Descriptions of gorgeous tinfoil machines like this one - which I am insanely in love with - mention things like "could only record 50-60 words". Not quite enough to work with.) Tough to find pictures of machines from before 1900, and apparently the material the earliest wax cylinders were made of...uh, didn't survive well. Many fogged during the summer due to high heat, and inconsistent ingredient formulations were an issue. (The tinfoil ones can't be played back anymore at all. That's so sad.)
The cardboard tubes the cylinders were packaged in? Just gave company name, artist info was hand-written on them. No marking on the cylinders themselves at all - though an announcer often gave that info at the start of the recording. To hold one properly, you should stick your fingers inside the cylinder at either end, not touching the wax part. (This, on further thought, makes an awful lot of sense. You could buy attachments to shave flat - and thus erase - recorded cylinders.) Such odd little details, things you'd never think of questioning...
Also - I suspect that, come editing time (and/or desperate-for-wordcount-time), I am going to make some serious, serious use of this stunning collection of old sheet music. What a truly amazing resource, I cannot WAIT to dive into it!
...but I should probably remedy my word count first. Worked early yesterday, so only had time to put in about 700 words in the morning, and when I got home, there was a football game to watch with Tom, and then we decided to have a nice lil evening. (Didn't post on here yesterday - backdated it when posted today.) Poor lil word count.
One last link: piano recording, no date, though I'd guess late 1880s-early 1890s, since it's a white cylinder of a metal soap, which was tried shortly after wax ones came on the market.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
12 - Mephisto, continued
I freeze, taken aback by the unexpectedness of this intrusion. David, my---
My little songbird.
Would his song help or hinder my survival of such pained emotion?
He knocks again, a little louder. “Mephisto? Are you alright?”
“Fine.” I cough, clearing my throat, dabbing hurriedly at my eyes. “Fine. Do come in.”
He enters the carriage, his eyes wide and concerned. “I saw you leave in such a hurry, that I was worried there might be some trouble. Is all well?”
Dear boy. He knows so little, yet cares so much nonetheless. “Yes, I simply... I felt too tired to deal with all of the inane banter that always follows a performance.” I am regaining composure now, and gesture carelessly. “Yes, I felt that it could only demean such a lovely moment as that dance created, to discuss it with petty words. Quite ruin the effect.”
The boy nods, smiling in agreement. “I quite understand. ...but it was lovely, wasn't it?” He sighs contentedly, leaning back in the seat and closing his eyes, watching again the flight of the wild nightingale across the stage. “Though – and I am sorry, here I am discussing it! But, did you not feel that her song was lacking? There was such wild and... something of unearthly beauty in her dance and her passions. Yet the melodies were so predictable, the form of the songs so prosaic. I felt the music should have been as free of tradition as her dance was, and yet it was not.” He frowns, deep in consideration, trying to find the music that she should have sung within his own head.
If anyone might find it, I suspect that he would.
I drag myself into conversation – I feel too exhausted to do so, but it will be a welcome distraction. I do not wish to ruin the memory of the nightingale by thinking of her in such prosaic terms, but if I can set some distance between her and the discussion of her... keeping her caged inside gilded walls within my thoughts, while idle words float in a meaningless wind nearby.
“They would have done well to borrow elements of the Indies, of the Arabs, in the music. For those distant lands do not use the same melodic scales as the West, and it would bring an otherworldly quality to the songs. The structures, as well – it hardly seems appropriate that one would cast a bird's song into rigid bars of melody, countermelody, refrain, with chords building around it in perfect exemplars of harmonic rules. Could they not have set her A against a backdrop of an E minor chord, or some other seemingly incorrect thing? But instead, every C was held against Gs and Es, and, you are quite right, it was all far too predictable. Though that final strain of the nightingale, left unresolved in the air...” I swallow hard, and drag a breath into my lungs. I put a hand to my eyes – I will restrain myself.
David leans forward, and puts a tender hand on my arm. “It is quite alright... I was moved to tears myself.” He shivers slightly at the memory. “Claude mocked me,” he adds bitterly. “I sometimes find it hard to believe that he paints of such wonderful emotions, for it seems he has little sympathy for them.”
I take a slow ragged breath, forcing back the thoughts which seek to destroy my mind. I rub at my temples, blinking carefully. “Would you be so kind as to tell the driver to take us home, David? I had meant to, we have sat here so long unmoving. I wish to leave before the others arrive to inquire.”
“Certainly!” He slides open the window at the front of the carriage, and calls the request through. The carriage rumbles to a start, and David falls back into his seat, unsteadied by the jarring motion of wheels on cobblestone. I have had the most cunning devices rigged to my carriage, to make the ride far smoother than most would think possible, but still it is unsettling to me. It would be gentler to my body to ride the horse myself! Ah well... All suffer for the sake of appearances. As a woman would wear a corset, I will ride in a carriage.
My little songbird.
Would his song help or hinder my survival of such pained emotion?
He knocks again, a little louder. “Mephisto? Are you alright?”
“Fine.” I cough, clearing my throat, dabbing hurriedly at my eyes. “Fine. Do come in.”
He enters the carriage, his eyes wide and concerned. “I saw you leave in such a hurry, that I was worried there might be some trouble. Is all well?”
Dear boy. He knows so little, yet cares so much nonetheless. “Yes, I simply... I felt too tired to deal with all of the inane banter that always follows a performance.” I am regaining composure now, and gesture carelessly. “Yes, I felt that it could only demean such a lovely moment as that dance created, to discuss it with petty words. Quite ruin the effect.”
The boy nods, smiling in agreement. “I quite understand. ...but it was lovely, wasn't it?” He sighs contentedly, leaning back in the seat and closing his eyes, watching again the flight of the wild nightingale across the stage. “Though – and I am sorry, here I am discussing it! But, did you not feel that her song was lacking? There was such wild and... something of unearthly beauty in her dance and her passions. Yet the melodies were so predictable, the form of the songs so prosaic. I felt the music should have been as free of tradition as her dance was, and yet it was not.” He frowns, deep in consideration, trying to find the music that she should have sung within his own head.
If anyone might find it, I suspect that he would.
I drag myself into conversation – I feel too exhausted to do so, but it will be a welcome distraction. I do not wish to ruin the memory of the nightingale by thinking of her in such prosaic terms, but if I can set some distance between her and the discussion of her... keeping her caged inside gilded walls within my thoughts, while idle words float in a meaningless wind nearby.
“They would have done well to borrow elements of the Indies, of the Arabs, in the music. For those distant lands do not use the same melodic scales as the West, and it would bring an otherworldly quality to the songs. The structures, as well – it hardly seems appropriate that one would cast a bird's song into rigid bars of melody, countermelody, refrain, with chords building around it in perfect exemplars of harmonic rules. Could they not have set her A against a backdrop of an E minor chord, or some other seemingly incorrect thing? But instead, every C was held against Gs and Es, and, you are quite right, it was all far too predictable. Though that final strain of the nightingale, left unresolved in the air...” I swallow hard, and drag a breath into my lungs. I put a hand to my eyes – I will restrain myself.
David leans forward, and puts a tender hand on my arm. “It is quite alright... I was moved to tears myself.” He shivers slightly at the memory. “Claude mocked me,” he adds bitterly. “I sometimes find it hard to believe that he paints of such wonderful emotions, for it seems he has little sympathy for them.”
I take a slow ragged breath, forcing back the thoughts which seek to destroy my mind. I rub at my temples, blinking carefully. “Would you be so kind as to tell the driver to take us home, David? I had meant to, we have sat here so long unmoving. I wish to leave before the others arrive to inquire.”
“Certainly!” He slides open the window at the front of the carriage, and calls the request through. The carriage rumbles to a start, and David falls back into his seat, unsteadied by the jarring motion of wheels on cobblestone. I have had the most cunning devices rigged to my carriage, to make the ride far smoother than most would think possible, but still it is unsettling to me. It would be gentler to my body to ride the horse myself! Ah well... All suffer for the sake of appearances. As a woman would wear a corset, I will ride in a carriage.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
12 - Mephisto, continued
Luce strokes the creature absently, his long fingers burying themselves in the rich fur of tawny gold and jet black. It grumbles contentedly as it blinks its fierce amber eyes slowly, stretching out to lie at Luce's feet. Though its great bulk is intimidating – and, indeed, as it yawns, its teeth are an impressive sight – it is quite docile, and we are all aware that it will cause no harm that Luce does not intend. He seems for the moment to be content merely with the disturbance caused by its mere presence. I am certain he allowed a select few to note his entrance this evening, and word of such a delightful outrage will spread quickly and quietly.
An usher makes one final attempt. “Sir. The staff would like you to be aware that you will be responsible for any damage incurred by this animal, whether to any items or persons.”
Luce chuckles, and the beast lifts its head to gaze solemnly at the man. Its eyes are made all the more fearsome by the tangle of dark lines around its face, as if they were tattoos on an Oriental mystic, casting some terrible curse. “You will certainly die at my hands,” those eyes read, with a calm certainty. The usher's eyes widen, and he takes an involuntary step backward. The tiger licks its lips with an enormous pink tongue, then settles its head back down, eyes never leaving the petrified man.
“We are well aware,” Luce replies casually, waving the man away. “Now do leave us be – the curtain shall rise at any moment.”
The usher returns to the huddle, and I can just hear him insisting to the others that they keep mum about the whole affair, and make certain no knowledge of the beast reaches the excitable general audience. One usher remains just outside the entrance to our box, and his fear is palpable even at a distance.
Luce's face is serene, but there is gaiety in his dark eyes. “Meres, my dear, I am sorry to have missed a portion of the opening. But the horses took less kindly to my companion than I had anticipated, and I was thus unfortunately delayed.”
Meres rolls his eyes, trying not to smile in encouragement at Luce's ludicrous actions. “It is quite alright – the plot to the ballet is sparse, and simple enough. Julietta is the main point of interest, as I have told you, and it is quite impossible to neglect watching her, no matter her position on the stage.”
The rich velvet curtains begin their gentle sweep of the stage floor, folding in upon themselves to reveal a fresh scene, with trees now standing in the garden, and a lovely young man seated at a window, gazing sorrowfully out into it. The nightingale begins to flutter anxiously within view of the window, seeking to hear of his woes. Through gesture and grasping motion, the youth reaches for something unattainable, his hand stretching out and then falling away from an object he cannot possess. A girl, haughty but beautiful, passes across the stage, dancing in stately grace. She dances in precise movements, and a swarm of like maidens soon gathers about her, dancing in perfect tandem, while the young man gazes helplessly after her. It is strange to see – for though she ought to seem a paragon of feminine beauty, in her richly colored dress and fine features, the girl somehow seems drab and dull, when compared to the wild grace of the nightingale. Still, the youth sees only this cold vision of his desire, reaching for some gift with which to please her, but she will not notice him.
He turns to the garden, and moves about it desperately, his heart breaking for lack of a suitable gift, with which to gain the return of his affections. The nightingale swoops curiously about him, watching raptly, and growing ever more tender toward his longing. She caresses his outstretched hand, she reassures him of her aid. But he is deaf to her comforting song, and turns in despair back indoors, the lights dimming over him in sleep.
The moon begins to rise, a delicate silver light, and the nightingale flits excitedly about the garden. She thinks only of Love, of the delight which is felt between lovers, and her thoughts are shown by many such pairs, which flit in and out of the flower-filled space. Yet she does not touch them, seeking only for that gift the young man so longs for.
The curtains fall, but the pause is shorter this time. When they part again, the garden has grown richer, taking again the whole of the stage. The nightingale loops in searching circles about it, at last pausing beside a large rose bush. A slim dancer in rich green and tiny buds of white slips out from behind the bush, and dances alongside the nightingale. A flurry of white roses swirls around them, and the nightingale pauses among them, then continues her search. This is repeated with roses of yellow, which she again considers, but then moves on from, still alone. She approaches a withered rose bush, its leaves tipped with black from a harsh frost. The image of a red rose flits by, but the nightingale cannot grasp it, though she pleads with the bush. At last, the bush resigns, and leans close to whisper something in the nightingale's ear. The nightingale is struck with sorrow for just a moment, then seems to gain courage, and thinks again of the sad youth, yearning for his unattainable love.
The curtain falls, and rises again, the youth laying in silent dreams on the ground. The nightingale swings around him, dancing joyously, her thoughts all of pure love realized, the splendor of that perfect union of two hearts, one to the other.
The youth considers the bird a moment, but seems scarcely to hear her, as he sighs and returns indoors, despair still gripping tight his young heart.
The nightingale pauses for a few moments, seeming timid of her intentions. She flits from tree to tree, and each caresses her in turn, saddened by something but so sweetly tender to the bird that she gains the strength to continue on. At last, she returns to the frost-bitten rosebush, and, with a burst of determination, presses herself tightly against its thorns. A flash of red, and a cry of pain, but she chokes back the sorrow and sings, in melodies of heartbreaking sweetness, singing only of love in its many ages, which flit as dreams through the garden beside her. She presses ever closer to the rose's thorns, and gradually, her brown body begins to stain with red, a living crimson which seeps along the limbs of both bird and tree. She thought of love in youth, as the first glimpses of an unknown beauty, which the heart longs for without knowing reason.
And a bud formed on the side of the tree, slowly, painful in its slowness, uncurling. Its petals are first colorless in the moonlight, but as the nightingale sings on, it turns a pale flushed pink, and then darker, darker, as the blood flows from the bird to the tree.
The nightingale sings of passionate love, as a man and woman unite in the heat of their emotion, and the rose's petals are lined with dark fuchsia, though it yet remains pale at its center. The rose flutters lightly in the night breeze, and the bird clings tighter still to the bush – and her song is lost again in a cry of pain. But she recovers her voice, and sings wildly, caught in the bush as they whirl about in an ecstacy of pain and love and longing, and the image of love which survives even death floats by on the wind...
And the bird's song begins to fade, as a dawn light begins to color the sky.
One final thrill of yearning melody, one burst of heartbreaking passion, and then all is still. The nightingale falls to the ground, and the rose spreads its fullness wide, crimson as rubies, crimson as only life's blood can be.
A silver sylph slips out from the moon, skimming light as a moonbeam across the stage, caressing the nightingale's still form tenderly, lingering in the silent garden for a few long moments, then disappearing before the dawn has broken.
The curtain falls, and the silence remains.
The curtain rises, and the young man discovers the single red rose in his sunlit garden. He spins about the floor in rapture, and hurries away as the curtain drops for a moment. On its rising, the girl he has dreamed of is seated in a plush room, a swath of palest blue silk draped on a chair beside her. He rushes toward her, holding out the perfect red rose, passionate in his pleas, all delight at having found her gift. But she turns her head away, and gestures toward the pale blue dress, which a red flower would never suit, and then shows him a fine necklace of diamonds and palest sapphires, which she smiles at and holds tenderly to her bosom. The boy is stricken, and then grows angry, throwing the rose into the street, where he sightlessly treads upon it as he storms away from the girl. She continues to dance in contented solitude with her jewels, and he shuts himself in a poorly-lit room, losing his thoughts in books.
And the moonbeam drifts across the stage, but does not touch the boy, and does not touch the girl, only echoes as best she can the grace of the wild nightingale, whose passion and love were so great, and yet so soon forgotten.
The lights rise, and the audience applauds, but I scarcely hear them. I do not see the dancers take their bows, for my eyes have filled with tears which I cannot dissipate. I excuse myself hurriedly – I will congratulate Meres later, but I cannot speak idle words of comment and critique in a moment such as this. The usher at the entrance to our box starts at my hurried motion – I suppose he is afraid the tiger has bitten me or some such nonsense – but I will not stop for him. I pass quickly through the still-empty halls, and reach my carriage long before the crowds have left their seats. Once inside, I am safe. They will comment on my rapid departure, but I shall think of some excuse. Better they suspect, than that they see such uncontrolled display...
And I cannot control it. To see such love – not the simple love of a man for a woman, but that deeper love, which gives all of itself and does not even think of asking a thing in return. That selflessness... it is a subject too delicate for such broad statement. The dance expressed it beyond all words, and I cannot find words with which to explain and thus allay my heartbreak at its expression. The nightingale, singing of love in its purest expression, with her very last breath...
There is a knock at the carriage door. I neglected to address myself to the driver – he must be inquiring as to my desired destination. I hurriedly brush my eyes with my sleeve, but keep my face hidden in shadow as I open the door. “Take me home. That will be all.”
“...Mephisto? It is David, may I enter?”
An usher makes one final attempt. “Sir. The staff would like you to be aware that you will be responsible for any damage incurred by this animal, whether to any items or persons.”
Luce chuckles, and the beast lifts its head to gaze solemnly at the man. Its eyes are made all the more fearsome by the tangle of dark lines around its face, as if they were tattoos on an Oriental mystic, casting some terrible curse. “You will certainly die at my hands,” those eyes read, with a calm certainty. The usher's eyes widen, and he takes an involuntary step backward. The tiger licks its lips with an enormous pink tongue, then settles its head back down, eyes never leaving the petrified man.
“We are well aware,” Luce replies casually, waving the man away. “Now do leave us be – the curtain shall rise at any moment.”
The usher returns to the huddle, and I can just hear him insisting to the others that they keep mum about the whole affair, and make certain no knowledge of the beast reaches the excitable general audience. One usher remains just outside the entrance to our box, and his fear is palpable even at a distance.
Luce's face is serene, but there is gaiety in his dark eyes. “Meres, my dear, I am sorry to have missed a portion of the opening. But the horses took less kindly to my companion than I had anticipated, and I was thus unfortunately delayed.”
Meres rolls his eyes, trying not to smile in encouragement at Luce's ludicrous actions. “It is quite alright – the plot to the ballet is sparse, and simple enough. Julietta is the main point of interest, as I have told you, and it is quite impossible to neglect watching her, no matter her position on the stage.”
The rich velvet curtains begin their gentle sweep of the stage floor, folding in upon themselves to reveal a fresh scene, with trees now standing in the garden, and a lovely young man seated at a window, gazing sorrowfully out into it. The nightingale begins to flutter anxiously within view of the window, seeking to hear of his woes. Through gesture and grasping motion, the youth reaches for something unattainable, his hand stretching out and then falling away from an object he cannot possess. A girl, haughty but beautiful, passes across the stage, dancing in stately grace. She dances in precise movements, and a swarm of like maidens soon gathers about her, dancing in perfect tandem, while the young man gazes helplessly after her. It is strange to see – for though she ought to seem a paragon of feminine beauty, in her richly colored dress and fine features, the girl somehow seems drab and dull, when compared to the wild grace of the nightingale. Still, the youth sees only this cold vision of his desire, reaching for some gift with which to please her, but she will not notice him.
He turns to the garden, and moves about it desperately, his heart breaking for lack of a suitable gift, with which to gain the return of his affections. The nightingale swoops curiously about him, watching raptly, and growing ever more tender toward his longing. She caresses his outstretched hand, she reassures him of her aid. But he is deaf to her comforting song, and turns in despair back indoors, the lights dimming over him in sleep.
The moon begins to rise, a delicate silver light, and the nightingale flits excitedly about the garden. She thinks only of Love, of the delight which is felt between lovers, and her thoughts are shown by many such pairs, which flit in and out of the flower-filled space. Yet she does not touch them, seeking only for that gift the young man so longs for.
The curtains fall, but the pause is shorter this time. When they part again, the garden has grown richer, taking again the whole of the stage. The nightingale loops in searching circles about it, at last pausing beside a large rose bush. A slim dancer in rich green and tiny buds of white slips out from behind the bush, and dances alongside the nightingale. A flurry of white roses swirls around them, and the nightingale pauses among them, then continues her search. This is repeated with roses of yellow, which she again considers, but then moves on from, still alone. She approaches a withered rose bush, its leaves tipped with black from a harsh frost. The image of a red rose flits by, but the nightingale cannot grasp it, though she pleads with the bush. At last, the bush resigns, and leans close to whisper something in the nightingale's ear. The nightingale is struck with sorrow for just a moment, then seems to gain courage, and thinks again of the sad youth, yearning for his unattainable love.
The curtain falls, and rises again, the youth laying in silent dreams on the ground. The nightingale swings around him, dancing joyously, her thoughts all of pure love realized, the splendor of that perfect union of two hearts, one to the other.
The youth considers the bird a moment, but seems scarcely to hear her, as he sighs and returns indoors, despair still gripping tight his young heart.
The nightingale pauses for a few moments, seeming timid of her intentions. She flits from tree to tree, and each caresses her in turn, saddened by something but so sweetly tender to the bird that she gains the strength to continue on. At last, she returns to the frost-bitten rosebush, and, with a burst of determination, presses herself tightly against its thorns. A flash of red, and a cry of pain, but she chokes back the sorrow and sings, in melodies of heartbreaking sweetness, singing only of love in its many ages, which flit as dreams through the garden beside her. She presses ever closer to the rose's thorns, and gradually, her brown body begins to stain with red, a living crimson which seeps along the limbs of both bird and tree. She thought of love in youth, as the first glimpses of an unknown beauty, which the heart longs for without knowing reason.
And a bud formed on the side of the tree, slowly, painful in its slowness, uncurling. Its petals are first colorless in the moonlight, but as the nightingale sings on, it turns a pale flushed pink, and then darker, darker, as the blood flows from the bird to the tree.
The nightingale sings of passionate love, as a man and woman unite in the heat of their emotion, and the rose's petals are lined with dark fuchsia, though it yet remains pale at its center. The rose flutters lightly in the night breeze, and the bird clings tighter still to the bush – and her song is lost again in a cry of pain. But she recovers her voice, and sings wildly, caught in the bush as they whirl about in an ecstacy of pain and love and longing, and the image of love which survives even death floats by on the wind...
And the bird's song begins to fade, as a dawn light begins to color the sky.
One final thrill of yearning melody, one burst of heartbreaking passion, and then all is still. The nightingale falls to the ground, and the rose spreads its fullness wide, crimson as rubies, crimson as only life's blood can be.
A silver sylph slips out from the moon, skimming light as a moonbeam across the stage, caressing the nightingale's still form tenderly, lingering in the silent garden for a few long moments, then disappearing before the dawn has broken.
The curtain falls, and the silence remains.
The curtain rises, and the young man discovers the single red rose in his sunlit garden. He spins about the floor in rapture, and hurries away as the curtain drops for a moment. On its rising, the girl he has dreamed of is seated in a plush room, a swath of palest blue silk draped on a chair beside her. He rushes toward her, holding out the perfect red rose, passionate in his pleas, all delight at having found her gift. But she turns her head away, and gestures toward the pale blue dress, which a red flower would never suit, and then shows him a fine necklace of diamonds and palest sapphires, which she smiles at and holds tenderly to her bosom. The boy is stricken, and then grows angry, throwing the rose into the street, where he sightlessly treads upon it as he storms away from the girl. She continues to dance in contented solitude with her jewels, and he shuts himself in a poorly-lit room, losing his thoughts in books.
And the moonbeam drifts across the stage, but does not touch the boy, and does not touch the girl, only echoes as best she can the grace of the wild nightingale, whose passion and love were so great, and yet so soon forgotten.
The lights rise, and the audience applauds, but I scarcely hear them. I do not see the dancers take their bows, for my eyes have filled with tears which I cannot dissipate. I excuse myself hurriedly – I will congratulate Meres later, but I cannot speak idle words of comment and critique in a moment such as this. The usher at the entrance to our box starts at my hurried motion – I suppose he is afraid the tiger has bitten me or some such nonsense – but I will not stop for him. I pass quickly through the still-empty halls, and reach my carriage long before the crowds have left their seats. Once inside, I am safe. They will comment on my rapid departure, but I shall think of some excuse. Better they suspect, than that they see such uncontrolled display...
And I cannot control it. To see such love – not the simple love of a man for a woman, but that deeper love, which gives all of itself and does not even think of asking a thing in return. That selflessness... it is a subject too delicate for such broad statement. The dance expressed it beyond all words, and I cannot find words with which to explain and thus allay my heartbreak at its expression. The nightingale, singing of love in its purest expression, with her very last breath...
There is a knock at the carriage door. I neglected to address myself to the driver – he must be inquiring as to my desired destination. I hurriedly brush my eyes with my sleeve, but keep my face hidden in shadow as I open the door. “Take me home. That will be all.”
“...Mephisto? It is David, may I enter?”
Notes
I was just checking up on when Oscar Wilde's "The Happy Prince and Other Tales" was published, to see if using "The Nightingale and the Rose" as a basis for the ballet was entirely absurd. 1888 - so, the story itself was written sometime before, and either which way, that's right about the correct time period.
I skimmed over Wikipedia's summary of the story (which I might re-read this morning, for reference and for sheer love of the thing), and discovered a good bunch of adaptations of the story have been done, including - totally unbeknownst to me - A BALLET. lmao. Had no idea. From 2007, so totally irrelevant to the story, but that's better for me anyway. Two reviews linger on the 'nets, the first of which is lovely, and, the way the nightingale seems to have been portrayed is *exactly* the thing I had in mind myself. I feel so validated. (The second review was brief and negative, dissing both the story and production, and saying the story was an odd choice for a ballet. I think it's absolutely perfect - simple by way of plot, incredibly rich in emotion.)
P.S. No I have no idea why Luce has brought a tiger to the theater. The thought popped into my head, and it seemed a good whim for him to have. Very decadent and absurd. He demanded to be allowed to do it.
I skimmed over Wikipedia's summary of the story (which I might re-read this morning, for reference and for sheer love of the thing), and discovered a good bunch of adaptations of the story have been done, including - totally unbeknownst to me - A BALLET. lmao. Had no idea. From 2007, so totally irrelevant to the story, but that's better for me anyway. Two reviews linger on the 'nets, the first of which is lovely, and, the way the nightingale seems to have been portrayed is *exactly* the thing I had in mind myself. I feel so validated. (The second review was brief and negative, dissing both the story and production, and saying the story was an odd choice for a ballet. I think it's absolutely perfect - simple by way of plot, incredibly rich in emotion.)
P.S. No I have no idea why Luce has brought a tiger to the theater. The thought popped into my head, and it seemed a good whim for him to have. Very decadent and absurd. He demanded to be allowed to do it.
Friday, November 12, 2010
12 - Mephisto, continued
Meres hesitates a moment as he reaches for his drink, then sighs as he brings it to his lips. “I had thought, for a moment, that he had forgotten to bring Veri's drink. But once again, he has chosen to remain in his own rooms, alone...”
“He did not come to see this production you have put so much time into?” I am rather surprised at this – Veri is perhaps the most selfish among us, and yet, he and Meres are so very close. It is quite a slight.
“No. He gave the usual excuses, but I still do not know what truly troubles him, and I have tired of searching for the answer. He can find it for himself.” His voice is unusually dull, and the flatness is quite obviously covering over a very, very deep emotion. What a pathétique little drama these two are bound in! I sip my wine slowly, letting the richness of ancient grapes soak into my tongue, savoring the rich woody flavor, that strange blend of bitter and sweet.
“Our young protégés seem to be enjoying your creation quite thoroughly,” I comment as my eyes fall on the box beside ours. David and Claude are seated as close as possible to the railing, apart from the small handful of others in the box, who sit farther back and talk amongst themselves, caring little for the enchanting things on the distant stage. The boys seem entranced - Claude by the artistry in the sets and costumes, the grace of the dancer's motions, the beauty of every curve traced in the air by a well-toned limb. David, it is a little more difficult to discern, but I suspect he is enthralled by the interplay between the music and motions, the way the two compliment each other in their expressions, each making the other grander by association. He has not been to such a grand ballet as this before, and I am eager to hear of his reactions to it. The dear boy lacks for grace in his own motions, but I suspect it makes him all the more admiring of that quality in others.
Meres smiles as he looks over at the young men. “I am glad of it. Claude's paintings became so prosaic in his years of schooling, I am trying to bring some more exotic flavors to them. His figures are too posed, as well – I hope he shall learn something of the beauty in motion, and perhaps discover some new positions to make use of.”
I raise an eyebrow at this, the corner of a smile on my lips as I look at Meres. “Are you not able to show him different positions yourself?”
He laughs, and taps his glass lightly against mine. “Perhaps soon. I worry about overwhelming the boy too soon, you know.”
“He did seem rather shy at such suggestions, by Luce's account.”
Meres groans, and settles back in his seat, taking another sip from his glass. “Luce ought to consider something besides his own amusement from time to time. I could hardly get Claude to look me in the eye for a quarter of an hour, before he managed to blurt out enough that I understood what Luce had suggested. A common thing among ourselves, but to such a new entrée in our little clique? He was absolutely distraught, and now I shall have to spend a good deal more energy in reconciling him to such ideas. He was coming along so nicely! That painting of David and Jonathan, he has been doing without any – or, very little – input from myself. But I suspect he has kept from his own conscious thoughts the desires which he has put into their eyes. For though he may have yearnings, so long as he does not name them, he cannot feel guilty about them. I had hoped to make use of this, to bring him into situations he dared not imagine but had longed for nonetheless... but now I shall have to find a new tactic.”
I nod thoughtfully, smiling to myself. “David is quite similar in that – he will not call a rose by name, but he will indulge in the rich scent of it all the same.”
We return our full attention to the stage, watching as the dancers swirl around each other. A garish canary, a bold cardinal, and a mocking jay, curl around the stage in procession, moving in perfect synchronization. Their motions are so like that it is as though one watched a single dancer through a kaleidoscope, the image fractured into several of different hue. There is a superb attitude to their motions, making the character of these birds quite clear. They are snobbish creatures, delighting in their own vivid plumage, exuding a superiority over all the world, confident in their own perfections. They snub the poor drab nightingale, darting near her and then quickly away, spinning about her with such speed that she is left dizzy, unable to follow and bewildered in their wake. She stumbles about the stage piteously, and a piccolo cries out in sharp pangs of pain from the orchestra. She slows, then stops, and though the other three flutter around the edges of the stage, it seems that all the world is still. Her presence is so strong that all the attention of all the theater has been drawn to her, and she holds it tight in her motionless frame, binding all to the stillness of herself. The audience, the world, is powerless to her in this moment.
It is this moment that I most admire. A smile widens across my face, and I wait with bated breath for her to move, that my heart might resume its beating.
It seems that she smiles too. She takes a few tiny steps, slowly, as if regaining her balance. Lifting to her toes, she stutters in a few looping circles around the stage, her arms lifting gracefully, her body tilting from one side to the other, in exemplars of ballet tradition. She copies the motions of the other birds in perfect measure, then pauses for half of a heartbeat, and leaps boldly across the stage, throwing herself into the air in a fresh burst of passion, as though she had been constrained by such staid motions as those of the other birds, and was now breaking free. She tumbles and whirls around the floor, again with the moves of an acrobat, flying in the faces of the more conservative birds, laughing as she flips and twirls. Flutes duet in an ecstasy of trills and darting countermelodies, and the girl dances as a waterfall, fluid and smooth and unceasing, a tangible power of exhortation in every gesture.
The other birds cry out in dismay, casting about with stilted motions, but the nightingale flies about them in joyous circles. The other birds soon confine themselves to the edges of the stage, letting the drab nightingale steal all the glory, her purity of heart outshining all their vainglories.
Such is the opening to the ballet – the lights fall slowly, and the orchestra swells, the curtains flowing across the stage. When they open again, the story will begin, and yet for me, I think the climax has already occurred. This Julietta has entirely stolen the show, and the remainder of it hardly needs heeded, save where she is present. I wonder what the papers will make of her on the morrow? For while I find her exhilarating, I am sure there will be argument against her, for her complete disregard for the refined traditions of the ballet.
I turn to Meres, and begin to congratulate him on such a coup, when a low growl attracts my attention. My eyes move quickly toward the sound, and I join in the laughter of those around me. It seems Luce arrived at some point during the opening scene, while our attentions were on the stage, and he has brought with him a pet, which has thrown the ushers into fits of consternation. Luce rests easily in a plush chair in the corner of the box, and holds a golden chain studded with topaz, which restrains (so hope the ushers!) a tiger, I suspect not quite fully grown, though it is more than enough to upset the staff!
The ushers are huddled in a terrified cluster at the entrance to the box, and every few moments one approaches Luce, with some argument that he waves off breezily, petting the tiger absently.
“But, sir... you must be aware of the panic such a creature could cause.”
“Only if he is seen by the general public. Which he will not, so long as he remains in our box.”
“But, sir, the manager of the establishment would not want---”
“---his financial endowment to disappear, yes, I agree. You will allow me to enjoy the performance in peace then?”
Flustered, the usher starts to speak again, then abandons the idea and returns to the huddle. Another usher approaches, attempting to look stern. He steps directly in front of Luce, who gazes up at him with all the calm of a child lying peacefully abed.
“Now, sir, if you would kindly cease such games. We cannot have such a beast in such a refined establishment.”
“Oh I assure you, he is quite refined! Why, that growl was merely his comment on the sour note the second viola hit in that final chord. Did you not notice it?”
The usher thinks quickly, seeing that no appeal to the common social rules will work in this case. “Sir. There are no seats for tigers in the building. He has no ticket.”
“But we have bought the box for the entirety of the season. Are not at liberty to populate it as we wish? I have given you no ticket for myself, nor for my other companions here, and yet you gave us no trouble.”
Now, the usher seems defeated. He returns to the huddle, and they murmur loudly to each other, entirely consternated.
“He did not come to see this production you have put so much time into?” I am rather surprised at this – Veri is perhaps the most selfish among us, and yet, he and Meres are so very close. It is quite a slight.
“No. He gave the usual excuses, but I still do not know what truly troubles him, and I have tired of searching for the answer. He can find it for himself.” His voice is unusually dull, and the flatness is quite obviously covering over a very, very deep emotion. What a pathétique little drama these two are bound in! I sip my wine slowly, letting the richness of ancient grapes soak into my tongue, savoring the rich woody flavor, that strange blend of bitter and sweet.
“Our young protégés seem to be enjoying your creation quite thoroughly,” I comment as my eyes fall on the box beside ours. David and Claude are seated as close as possible to the railing, apart from the small handful of others in the box, who sit farther back and talk amongst themselves, caring little for the enchanting things on the distant stage. The boys seem entranced - Claude by the artistry in the sets and costumes, the grace of the dancer's motions, the beauty of every curve traced in the air by a well-toned limb. David, it is a little more difficult to discern, but I suspect he is enthralled by the interplay between the music and motions, the way the two compliment each other in their expressions, each making the other grander by association. He has not been to such a grand ballet as this before, and I am eager to hear of his reactions to it. The dear boy lacks for grace in his own motions, but I suspect it makes him all the more admiring of that quality in others.
Meres smiles as he looks over at the young men. “I am glad of it. Claude's paintings became so prosaic in his years of schooling, I am trying to bring some more exotic flavors to them. His figures are too posed, as well – I hope he shall learn something of the beauty in motion, and perhaps discover some new positions to make use of.”
I raise an eyebrow at this, the corner of a smile on my lips as I look at Meres. “Are you not able to show him different positions yourself?”
He laughs, and taps his glass lightly against mine. “Perhaps soon. I worry about overwhelming the boy too soon, you know.”
“He did seem rather shy at such suggestions, by Luce's account.”
Meres groans, and settles back in his seat, taking another sip from his glass. “Luce ought to consider something besides his own amusement from time to time. I could hardly get Claude to look me in the eye for a quarter of an hour, before he managed to blurt out enough that I understood what Luce had suggested. A common thing among ourselves, but to such a new entrée in our little clique? He was absolutely distraught, and now I shall have to spend a good deal more energy in reconciling him to such ideas. He was coming along so nicely! That painting of David and Jonathan, he has been doing without any – or, very little – input from myself. But I suspect he has kept from his own conscious thoughts the desires which he has put into their eyes. For though he may have yearnings, so long as he does not name them, he cannot feel guilty about them. I had hoped to make use of this, to bring him into situations he dared not imagine but had longed for nonetheless... but now I shall have to find a new tactic.”
I nod thoughtfully, smiling to myself. “David is quite similar in that – he will not call a rose by name, but he will indulge in the rich scent of it all the same.”
We return our full attention to the stage, watching as the dancers swirl around each other. A garish canary, a bold cardinal, and a mocking jay, curl around the stage in procession, moving in perfect synchronization. Their motions are so like that it is as though one watched a single dancer through a kaleidoscope, the image fractured into several of different hue. There is a superb attitude to their motions, making the character of these birds quite clear. They are snobbish creatures, delighting in their own vivid plumage, exuding a superiority over all the world, confident in their own perfections. They snub the poor drab nightingale, darting near her and then quickly away, spinning about her with such speed that she is left dizzy, unable to follow and bewildered in their wake. She stumbles about the stage piteously, and a piccolo cries out in sharp pangs of pain from the orchestra. She slows, then stops, and though the other three flutter around the edges of the stage, it seems that all the world is still. Her presence is so strong that all the attention of all the theater has been drawn to her, and she holds it tight in her motionless frame, binding all to the stillness of herself. The audience, the world, is powerless to her in this moment.
It is this moment that I most admire. A smile widens across my face, and I wait with bated breath for her to move, that my heart might resume its beating.
It seems that she smiles too. She takes a few tiny steps, slowly, as if regaining her balance. Lifting to her toes, she stutters in a few looping circles around the stage, her arms lifting gracefully, her body tilting from one side to the other, in exemplars of ballet tradition. She copies the motions of the other birds in perfect measure, then pauses for half of a heartbeat, and leaps boldly across the stage, throwing herself into the air in a fresh burst of passion, as though she had been constrained by such staid motions as those of the other birds, and was now breaking free. She tumbles and whirls around the floor, again with the moves of an acrobat, flying in the faces of the more conservative birds, laughing as she flips and twirls. Flutes duet in an ecstasy of trills and darting countermelodies, and the girl dances as a waterfall, fluid and smooth and unceasing, a tangible power of exhortation in every gesture.
The other birds cry out in dismay, casting about with stilted motions, but the nightingale flies about them in joyous circles. The other birds soon confine themselves to the edges of the stage, letting the drab nightingale steal all the glory, her purity of heart outshining all their vainglories.
Such is the opening to the ballet – the lights fall slowly, and the orchestra swells, the curtains flowing across the stage. When they open again, the story will begin, and yet for me, I think the climax has already occurred. This Julietta has entirely stolen the show, and the remainder of it hardly needs heeded, save where she is present. I wonder what the papers will make of her on the morrow? For while I find her exhilarating, I am sure there will be argument against her, for her complete disregard for the refined traditions of the ballet.
I turn to Meres, and begin to congratulate him on such a coup, when a low growl attracts my attention. My eyes move quickly toward the sound, and I join in the laughter of those around me. It seems Luce arrived at some point during the opening scene, while our attentions were on the stage, and he has brought with him a pet, which has thrown the ushers into fits of consternation. Luce rests easily in a plush chair in the corner of the box, and holds a golden chain studded with topaz, which restrains (so hope the ushers!) a tiger, I suspect not quite fully grown, though it is more than enough to upset the staff!
The ushers are huddled in a terrified cluster at the entrance to the box, and every few moments one approaches Luce, with some argument that he waves off breezily, petting the tiger absently.
“But, sir... you must be aware of the panic such a creature could cause.”
“Only if he is seen by the general public. Which he will not, so long as he remains in our box.”
“But, sir, the manager of the establishment would not want---”
“---his financial endowment to disappear, yes, I agree. You will allow me to enjoy the performance in peace then?”
Flustered, the usher starts to speak again, then abandons the idea and returns to the huddle. Another usher approaches, attempting to look stern. He steps directly in front of Luce, who gazes up at him with all the calm of a child lying peacefully abed.
“Now, sir, if you would kindly cease such games. We cannot have such a beast in such a refined establishment.”
“Oh I assure you, he is quite refined! Why, that growl was merely his comment on the sour note the second viola hit in that final chord. Did you not notice it?”
The usher thinks quickly, seeing that no appeal to the common social rules will work in this case. “Sir. There are no seats for tigers in the building. He has no ticket.”
“But we have bought the box for the entirety of the season. Are not at liberty to populate it as we wish? I have given you no ticket for myself, nor for my other companions here, and yet you gave us no trouble.”
Now, the usher seems defeated. He returns to the huddle, and they murmur loudly to each other, entirely consternated.
12 - Mephisto
The audience has largely hushed, hidden in the vast shadowed area of the floor. The strings of the orchestra are in full flight, swelling as the lights on the stage come up. The sun rises at the bidding of trumpets, and as the light settles into a warm glow, a solo flute beckons a dancer onto the stage. Her steps are brief and rapid, before suddenly giving way to a leap so light and graceful that there seems no reason she ought return to the ground.
“Ah! Is that the new girl, Meres?”
“It is – that is Julietta Shastakovich. This is her first solo part, which I feel is long overdue. I came across her rehearsing alone one day, and--- well! You can see for yourself how perfectly suited she is for the part of the nightingale. I insisted to the director that she have it.”
I nod my agreement, eyes fixed on the distant figure. “She has just the right sort of wild grace to her movements. She--- oh!” Surprised laughter overtakes the conversations running through our private box. The girl has done a rapid sort of backwards flip, such as one sees from circus performers, not from ballerinas! So scandalous an action, in such a regimented form of dance! But she has carried it through with such a natural elegance of motion, that it is as a bird looping merrily in mid-flight, and she leaps lightly around the exotic scenery of an Indian garden, joy in every gesture.
Meres' hand in the production is quite evident, for the scenery and costumes bear the mark of his endless attention to detail, as well as his fanciful and exotic tastes. The costume of the nightingale is really quite impressive, for she manages to be humble and drab, and yet dazzlingly beautiful in the same moment. She is dressed in shades of brown, but it is such a fine quality of material – is it silk or satin? - that it wraps tenderly around her slim, graceful frame, and finds beauty in her form. There is a flowing swath of some airy organza over the layers of her skirt, which billows into the currents her dance leaves in the air, a visible echo of her every motion. There are long feathers and a few subtle gems around her neck, at her breast and hips and arms. Though she is all in brown, there are a thousand subtleties in it for the eyes to delight in: The cream of her skin, the sepia of her hair, the beige of her satin shoes and ribbons, her skirt of ecru tulle, covered by tawny silk and all dusted in copper sequins and stones. We are at too great a distance to appreciate every detail, but our sight is better than most – and I am certain we shall see the girl at closer range before the evening is ended.
She is soon accompanied by a swarm of other birds, all more radiantly dressed than she, and my attention is drawn away for a time by the more attractive profusion of colors.
Adir and Nila's voices swell over the orchestra for a moment, but I refuse to listen to yet another of their disputes. An usher comes by to take orders for refreshments – he is obviously new, for he has stopped in other boxes before ours, and Luce darkly reprimands him for such a slight.
Our drinks then appear in impressively short order.
“Ah! Is that the new girl, Meres?”
“It is – that is Julietta Shastakovich. This is her first solo part, which I feel is long overdue. I came across her rehearsing alone one day, and--- well! You can see for yourself how perfectly suited she is for the part of the nightingale. I insisted to the director that she have it.”
I nod my agreement, eyes fixed on the distant figure. “She has just the right sort of wild grace to her movements. She--- oh!” Surprised laughter overtakes the conversations running through our private box. The girl has done a rapid sort of backwards flip, such as one sees from circus performers, not from ballerinas! So scandalous an action, in such a regimented form of dance! But she has carried it through with such a natural elegance of motion, that it is as a bird looping merrily in mid-flight, and she leaps lightly around the exotic scenery of an Indian garden, joy in every gesture.
Meres' hand in the production is quite evident, for the scenery and costumes bear the mark of his endless attention to detail, as well as his fanciful and exotic tastes. The costume of the nightingale is really quite impressive, for she manages to be humble and drab, and yet dazzlingly beautiful in the same moment. She is dressed in shades of brown, but it is such a fine quality of material – is it silk or satin? - that it wraps tenderly around her slim, graceful frame, and finds beauty in her form. There is a flowing swath of some airy organza over the layers of her skirt, which billows into the currents her dance leaves in the air, a visible echo of her every motion. There are long feathers and a few subtle gems around her neck, at her breast and hips and arms. Though she is all in brown, there are a thousand subtleties in it for the eyes to delight in: The cream of her skin, the sepia of her hair, the beige of her satin shoes and ribbons, her skirt of ecru tulle, covered by tawny silk and all dusted in copper sequins and stones. We are at too great a distance to appreciate every detail, but our sight is better than most – and I am certain we shall see the girl at closer range before the evening is ended.
She is soon accompanied by a swarm of other birds, all more radiantly dressed than she, and my attention is drawn away for a time by the more attractive profusion of colors.
Adir and Nila's voices swell over the orchestra for a moment, but I refuse to listen to yet another of their disputes. An usher comes by to take orders for refreshments – he is obviously new, for he has stopped in other boxes before ours, and Luce darkly reprimands him for such a slight.
Our drinks then appear in impressively short order.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Note
Luce and Meres totally hijacked my plans for that scene. Started in this morning, and Luce decided that taunting Claude was not as fun as it was yesterday. Instead, he heard something, and next thing I knew they were running off toward...
I had no idea what.
Wound up surprising me more than it surprised them, apparently. I had to keep referring back to the last chapter with Azal, to remember what the room looked like, and make sure I wasn't contradicting myself too absurdly. (Explanation: Azal thought he was okay. Ordered some wine to calm himself enough to head back to the party. Kept drinking. Couldn't clear his head, and things got worse instead of better. Kept drinking, and then made poor decisions. wtg Azal.)
I had no idea what.
Wound up surprising me more than it surprised them, apparently. I had to keep referring back to the last chapter with Azal, to remember what the room looked like, and make sure I wasn't contradicting myself too absurdly. (Explanation: Azal thought he was okay. Ordered some wine to calm himself enough to head back to the party. Kept drinking. Couldn't clear his head, and things got worse instead of better. Kept drinking, and then made poor decisions. wtg Azal.)
11 - Luce, continued
My attention is snatched away from the boy by a silent scream in my mind, a yanking of my heart against my ribs. I look up quickly, my eyes turned accusingly toward the ceiling, but there is nothing there to explain the feeling. I scan the room, but see nothing...
Azal. He has not yet returned, but I see the girl he was with, circulating the room with a tray of drinks, returned to her duties. Where is Azal? It has been too long, and there is something in the air that is not right.
“You must excuse me. There is something that I must attend to.”
Claude looks bewildered and embarrassed, but I care nothing for his comforts, there are larger things at stake, if my suspicions are correct. I slip through the crowd, showing myself unhurried, but stopping for no conversation, my gaze focused on the nearest exit from the room.
I pass through the shimmering gauze curtains, and stand a moment in the dim corridor, lit by few lamps. The lamps have been given shades of dark blue and violet, but the eerie effect only adds to my discomfiture. Before I have decided which direction to move in, I am joined by Meres. Our eyes meet a moment, and I know that he felt it as well. Mephisto was likely too distracted, Veri too exhausted; Adir, Carey, Nila... I doubt if this was a call they could even hear any more, so prosaic have their consciousnesses become in this late years.
We move quickly through the shadowed halls, guided solely by instinct, by a yearning of the breast toward our brother in pain. Pain... there is so much pain, that a part of me demands to know why I'm rushing so determinedly toward it. It can have no possible good for myself. But I cannot argue away this imperative, though no more can I explain it. Corner after corner, we turn round, hall after narrowing hall, we pass through, until at last we come to a closed door, which seems almost to burn in flame, such intensity does it strike our eyes with.
I put a hand to the knob – it is locked, but it is only a moment before I have remedied this. Men's minds grow more difficult to move, but scraps of cold metal are easy enough still. “Azal?” I call quietly as I push open the door, Meres and I slipping inside and locking it quickly and silently behind us. The room is dimly lit, awash in dark sapphire and violet, the shadows merging into strange forms...
But not all the strangeness lies in the shadows.
There is a form splayed out on the circular bed, rising and falling as though on ocean waves, but the angles are all wrong... it is as the mutilated form of a shattered corpse, motionless, the bones broken.
“Azal...” Meres breathes, then rushes to his side, the bed sloshing wildly at the sudden impact. “Azal! Come back, Azal, come back to us... there is nowhere else for you to go, you know this, Azal, do not subject yourself to such torment again!” He moves his hands quickly over the unresponsive frame, and I see his skin darken before he draws sharply back – blood, and something darker, ink I suspect.
I move toward the bed as well, and my eyes resolve the dark mass into better detail. Azal lies face down on the bed, and his back is covered in an unreadable mass of blood, ink, and torn flesh. The tattoos he acquired centuries ago, hoping by magical means to regain his wings, are barely visible in the mess. I cannot tell what ink is new and what old, for the tattoo seems fresh again, and the old blood flows alongside the new, the old scars are torn fresh alongside new incision. I sit carefully opposite Meres, who is peering closely at the destruction.
“Oh, Azal... why put yourself through this again? Do not let the pain overtake you like this...” He sighs, and turns Azal's head to the side, that he might look at the face. There is no motion of breath, but Meres lifts the closed eyelids, and seems to consider for a moment. He slides his hand under Azal's chest, pressing it tight over his heart for a long moment. His brows furrows, but at last he nods, and seems to relax a little. “He is returning. His heart beat is increasing, though it is yet faint.”
My own heart seems to have slowed as well – certainly my breathing has, for I feel the pressure of my lungs demanding more air. I take a deep breath, and gaze pityingly at Azal's back. So foolish. How many times must he attempt the same hopeless task? I take another deep breath – and realize that though I am breathing, my lungs are still unsatisfied, there is something odd in the air they take in. “Meres... the air. Is it strange to you?”
He pauses in his survey of Azal for a moment to consider. “It is. It is far, far too heavy, even for such a small enclosed space as this.”
“...how far do you suppose that he went?” My voice is low, for though we are alone, we can take no risk of anyone catching the merest suggestion of this.
Meres sighs heavily, stroking Azal's long hair, which is caked in places with blood that refuses to clot correctly. “I don't know... but certainly something went quite wrong. I know very little of these arts, but...” He traces the air over a particularly deep rend in Azal's flesh, to the left of the spine, above where his heart would be. He seems unusually hesitant to actually touch the patterns of blood and torn skin – he was never so before. “This pattern here, I recall it from something, and this one here...” He sighs again, biting at his lip. “Luce... it was not heaven he was calling toward, in demanding this gift.”
I nod solemnly. “I suspected as much. The air is too thick, too acrid. Was it his wings, again?”
“I can't be certain... there are new symbols here, that I do not recognize from before. But he crafts new ones every time, so it's possible this is a different path to his same goal.”
I turn my glance to take in the room, and notice several things that I had not before. “There were circles laid on the floor – they must have been sand, or something similar, for it seems we broke them as we entered.”
Meres looks around as well, frowning. “And the lamps – I did not intend to have them burn green in such a manner. The smell it creates is too unpleasant. Nor is that glitter on the floor there by design, it is shattered glass, not crystals or foil.”
There are heavy stains on the furniture and carpets, I cannot tell at this distance if they are wine or blood, though I suspect it is a mixture of both, for the tang of alcohol hangs in the air, almost hidden by the acrid bitterness of the chemicals causing the green flames, and the musty, cloying atmosphere that leaked out into this realm from that other one.
There is a low sound from the bed, and I turn my attention back to Azal's shattered form.
“Azal?” Meres leans close, and we both see the subtle motion as his lungs struggle to gain purchase again on this plane. “Azal... we are here with you. I know the pain is great, but you need not survive it alone.”
I move around beside Meres, sitting as lightly as I can on the side of the bed, reaching a hand over to stroke Azal's hair. “Shall we have something brought for you, to ease the pain?”
Azal groans, closing his eyes. “No... deserve it... must go through...”
Meres sighs, and uses a corner of silk sheet to wipe the smears of blood from Azal's face. “You do not have to go through it. You have paid price enough already, the spirits have gone. We have the means to numb your physical pains, at least, there is no reason not to do so.”
Azal seems hesitant, but at last manages something of a nod. Meres stands, and crosses the room to the bell pull, and rings for a servant. He steps outside the room, that the servant might see nothing of what lies within it.
I comb my fingers through Azal's hair still, pausing at each tangle, carefully working them loose. “Azal, you fool... why must you repeat this scene, over and again?”
He groans, sighing painfully. “Luce... air so thick. Do you not miss the skies?”
I smile wryly. “They are filled with such smoke and ash, over cities as this – it would hardly be the relief you believe it.”
He coughs, and it may be something of a laugh. “Luce... have to try. Thought this time, that I had something, I thought...”
“Azal. Please. It is wearisome to hear you speak of such things, you know I do not understand the languages of these circumscribed spheres. Do you realize what a mess you make of things, when you do these things? It will be months before we can patch your skin back together entirely.”
“I know... I am sorry for the trouble it causes you. Selfish.”
I laugh at this. “We are all selfish! But at least we can keep from being altogether stupid. Stop these frivolous quests. If some entirely new art is found, then by all means, we shall try to regain what we can, but... Azal, you have tread this path a hundred times. It leads nowhere.”
He sighs, chokes a moment, then clears his throat. He lifts a hand weakly, and I take it in mine. His skin is so much darker than mine, though it is yet paler than any of those he has lived among in the deserts all these years. The blood stains it dark, and spills a wine-tinged residue onto my flesh, as I clasp his hand. There is no warmth in the contact, our flesh ever-cold, but his breathing seems easier now. Azal... I know you will not stop in your futile questing. It is intrinsic to you, this unshakable faith in the arts you created. The yearning you succumb to is one that we all feel, though we... though I... have long since given up hope of absolving it.
Hope.
...is that what it is, that you yet have?
Azal. He has not yet returned, but I see the girl he was with, circulating the room with a tray of drinks, returned to her duties. Where is Azal? It has been too long, and there is something in the air that is not right.
“You must excuse me. There is something that I must attend to.”
Claude looks bewildered and embarrassed, but I care nothing for his comforts, there are larger things at stake, if my suspicions are correct. I slip through the crowd, showing myself unhurried, but stopping for no conversation, my gaze focused on the nearest exit from the room.
I pass through the shimmering gauze curtains, and stand a moment in the dim corridor, lit by few lamps. The lamps have been given shades of dark blue and violet, but the eerie effect only adds to my discomfiture. Before I have decided which direction to move in, I am joined by Meres. Our eyes meet a moment, and I know that he felt it as well. Mephisto was likely too distracted, Veri too exhausted; Adir, Carey, Nila... I doubt if this was a call they could even hear any more, so prosaic have their consciousnesses become in this late years.
We move quickly through the shadowed halls, guided solely by instinct, by a yearning of the breast toward our brother in pain. Pain... there is so much pain, that a part of me demands to know why I'm rushing so determinedly toward it. It can have no possible good for myself. But I cannot argue away this imperative, though no more can I explain it. Corner after corner, we turn round, hall after narrowing hall, we pass through, until at last we come to a closed door, which seems almost to burn in flame, such intensity does it strike our eyes with.
I put a hand to the knob – it is locked, but it is only a moment before I have remedied this. Men's minds grow more difficult to move, but scraps of cold metal are easy enough still. “Azal?” I call quietly as I push open the door, Meres and I slipping inside and locking it quickly and silently behind us. The room is dimly lit, awash in dark sapphire and violet, the shadows merging into strange forms...
But not all the strangeness lies in the shadows.
There is a form splayed out on the circular bed, rising and falling as though on ocean waves, but the angles are all wrong... it is as the mutilated form of a shattered corpse, motionless, the bones broken.
“Azal...” Meres breathes, then rushes to his side, the bed sloshing wildly at the sudden impact. “Azal! Come back, Azal, come back to us... there is nowhere else for you to go, you know this, Azal, do not subject yourself to such torment again!” He moves his hands quickly over the unresponsive frame, and I see his skin darken before he draws sharply back – blood, and something darker, ink I suspect.
I move toward the bed as well, and my eyes resolve the dark mass into better detail. Azal lies face down on the bed, and his back is covered in an unreadable mass of blood, ink, and torn flesh. The tattoos he acquired centuries ago, hoping by magical means to regain his wings, are barely visible in the mess. I cannot tell what ink is new and what old, for the tattoo seems fresh again, and the old blood flows alongside the new, the old scars are torn fresh alongside new incision. I sit carefully opposite Meres, who is peering closely at the destruction.
“Oh, Azal... why put yourself through this again? Do not let the pain overtake you like this...” He sighs, and turns Azal's head to the side, that he might look at the face. There is no motion of breath, but Meres lifts the closed eyelids, and seems to consider for a moment. He slides his hand under Azal's chest, pressing it tight over his heart for a long moment. His brows furrows, but at last he nods, and seems to relax a little. “He is returning. His heart beat is increasing, though it is yet faint.”
My own heart seems to have slowed as well – certainly my breathing has, for I feel the pressure of my lungs demanding more air. I take a deep breath, and gaze pityingly at Azal's back. So foolish. How many times must he attempt the same hopeless task? I take another deep breath – and realize that though I am breathing, my lungs are still unsatisfied, there is something odd in the air they take in. “Meres... the air. Is it strange to you?”
He pauses in his survey of Azal for a moment to consider. “It is. It is far, far too heavy, even for such a small enclosed space as this.”
“...how far do you suppose that he went?” My voice is low, for though we are alone, we can take no risk of anyone catching the merest suggestion of this.
Meres sighs heavily, stroking Azal's long hair, which is caked in places with blood that refuses to clot correctly. “I don't know... but certainly something went quite wrong. I know very little of these arts, but...” He traces the air over a particularly deep rend in Azal's flesh, to the left of the spine, above where his heart would be. He seems unusually hesitant to actually touch the patterns of blood and torn skin – he was never so before. “This pattern here, I recall it from something, and this one here...” He sighs again, biting at his lip. “Luce... it was not heaven he was calling toward, in demanding this gift.”
I nod solemnly. “I suspected as much. The air is too thick, too acrid. Was it his wings, again?”
“I can't be certain... there are new symbols here, that I do not recognize from before. But he crafts new ones every time, so it's possible this is a different path to his same goal.”
I turn my glance to take in the room, and notice several things that I had not before. “There were circles laid on the floor – they must have been sand, or something similar, for it seems we broke them as we entered.”
Meres looks around as well, frowning. “And the lamps – I did not intend to have them burn green in such a manner. The smell it creates is too unpleasant. Nor is that glitter on the floor there by design, it is shattered glass, not crystals or foil.”
There are heavy stains on the furniture and carpets, I cannot tell at this distance if they are wine or blood, though I suspect it is a mixture of both, for the tang of alcohol hangs in the air, almost hidden by the acrid bitterness of the chemicals causing the green flames, and the musty, cloying atmosphere that leaked out into this realm from that other one.
There is a low sound from the bed, and I turn my attention back to Azal's shattered form.
“Azal?” Meres leans close, and we both see the subtle motion as his lungs struggle to gain purchase again on this plane. “Azal... we are here with you. I know the pain is great, but you need not survive it alone.”
I move around beside Meres, sitting as lightly as I can on the side of the bed, reaching a hand over to stroke Azal's hair. “Shall we have something brought for you, to ease the pain?”
Azal groans, closing his eyes. “No... deserve it... must go through...”
Meres sighs, and uses a corner of silk sheet to wipe the smears of blood from Azal's face. “You do not have to go through it. You have paid price enough already, the spirits have gone. We have the means to numb your physical pains, at least, there is no reason not to do so.”
Azal seems hesitant, but at last manages something of a nod. Meres stands, and crosses the room to the bell pull, and rings for a servant. He steps outside the room, that the servant might see nothing of what lies within it.
I comb my fingers through Azal's hair still, pausing at each tangle, carefully working them loose. “Azal, you fool... why must you repeat this scene, over and again?”
He groans, sighing painfully. “Luce... air so thick. Do you not miss the skies?”
I smile wryly. “They are filled with such smoke and ash, over cities as this – it would hardly be the relief you believe it.”
He coughs, and it may be something of a laugh. “Luce... have to try. Thought this time, that I had something, I thought...”
“Azal. Please. It is wearisome to hear you speak of such things, you know I do not understand the languages of these circumscribed spheres. Do you realize what a mess you make of things, when you do these things? It will be months before we can patch your skin back together entirely.”
“I know... I am sorry for the trouble it causes you. Selfish.”
I laugh at this. “We are all selfish! But at least we can keep from being altogether stupid. Stop these frivolous quests. If some entirely new art is found, then by all means, we shall try to regain what we can, but... Azal, you have tread this path a hundred times. It leads nowhere.”
He sighs, chokes a moment, then clears his throat. He lifts a hand weakly, and I take it in mine. His skin is so much darker than mine, though it is yet paler than any of those he has lived among in the deserts all these years. The blood stains it dark, and spills a wine-tinged residue onto my flesh, as I clasp his hand. There is no warmth in the contact, our flesh ever-cold, but his breathing seems easier now. Azal... I know you will not stop in your futile questing. It is intrinsic to you, this unshakable faith in the arts you created. The yearning you succumb to is one that we all feel, though we... though I... have long since given up hope of absolving it.
Hope.
...is that what it is, that you yet have?
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